


Life Beyond the Minimum Safe Distance

by oxfordlunch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Busking, Classical Music, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Neurodivergent Sherlock, Implied Past Jolto, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV John Watson, Past Character Death, Past Drug Addiction, Romance, Violinist Sherlock, hunger, john is depressed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordlunch/pseuds/oxfordlunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**CURRENTLY ON  HIATUS while the author gets his head on straight**</p><p>These are grey days for John Watson.  Invalided out of the military and without a pound to his name, he spends his time wandering London like a ghost.  His only distraction comes in the form of the unconventional busker who plays mornings in the Underground station at Baker Street.  The man quickly becomes far more than a simple distraction, however, and John is left struggling to decide if he's really ready to try living again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamlockk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/gifts).



> This fic is in response to a prompt I received from the lovely Jamlockk:
> 
> "John notices Sherlock busking in the tube, deducing passersby in between playing songs and snootily refusing requests for Taylor Swift and 1D songs so he follows him one day and finds he’s giving all the money he earns to a homeless shelter."
> 
> Jam, I hope you'll forgive me for deviating a bit from the prompt here, but this particular story grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go.
> 
> Note that this is indeed an AU, and therefore Sherlock in particular may seem a bit different from his canon self. This is done purposefully, so don't fret if he seems out-of-character in some regards.
> 
> The title is borrowed from the song of the same name by musician Matthew Good.
> 
> Lastly, thanks to everyone who has helped me beta and given me advice so far, including Emily, Bethany, Samantha, Nicole, and Alex. I appreciate all of your input and help so very much, guys. Sincerely, thank you.

It is early morning and John has his back to one of the tall, tiled columns that hold up the ceiling of the Baker Street Tube station. He is waiting for the busker.

He leans there, trying his best to look the part of an average morning commuter. It is a relief to take some of the strain off his bad leg. His right hand clutches his cane, aluminum and beat to hell, loosely at his side, and the small rucksack that holds his few belongings is left slumped by his feet. There is a chill breeze that seems to drift down the staircases and whisper over his face, even so far underground. Lately it's as though the cold has seeped into every crack in his dry and wind-chapped skin, into the deep mess of scar tissue in his left shoulder, into every capillary and artery and every last inch of his being. There is a constant dampness that dogs him. His clothes feel wet even when they are as dry as desert air.

The commuters in the station pass him by with harried steps. John covets the paper cups of coffee they clutch in their hands, but doesn't bother to dig in his pockets for spare change he knows isn't there. Coffee would probably go down poorly on an empty stomach anyway, he reasons. He missed dinner last night, and there’s been no breakfast yet this morning. Still, caffeine sounds like heaven. There are bags under his eyes so deep he can feel them. 

He hasn’t slept well in ages.

John searches the station for a wall clock, his rather expensive Tag Heuer having given up and died just a few weeks ago. Defiantly, he keeps the piece strapped to his wrist. It won't do to try and pawn it; it was a gift, from a dusty thirty-fifth birthday celebrated over too many lukewarm cans of beer in Kandahar. He can look at it and remember and know that those three years don’t just live in bursts of blood and sunlight in his dreams, that they really passed by and happened.

When he finds the station wall clock, it reads half-seven. The busker is due in any minute. John settles back against the column and huffs out a tired breath and waits.

  


\--

  


The violinist is a tall man; taller than John, anyway. He is intriguing to look at. John has become something of an accomplished people-watcher these days, and nobody has yet captured his interest like the busker, with his dark head of curls and skin that looks as though it has never seen so much as a drop of sunshine.

John watches him sweep into the station, long black coat fluttering behind him like a cape. He always puts John in mind of Batman, or Zorro, or some other outlandish fictional character. He seems larger-than-life. The man sets his violin case on the station floor, then pulls off his coat and folds it neatly. He then takes out the violin and begins plucking at the strings with long fingers, testing and tuning. The instrument looks comically small in the grasp of his broad hands. The case is left open at his feet, inviting tips from the passerby.

John eases himself down to sit at the base of the column. He is careful to keep his legs tucked in, away from people's careless feet. His heart gives a tiny flutter of anticipation, and he settles in and listens with rapt attention as the violinist begins to play.

It begins with scales; to check the tuning, John presumes. He cannot tell the names of the notes just from listening; G is the same as A is the same as D flat, as far as he is aware. But even basic scales are lovely to listen to when played with grace, and grace is something the man has in spades.

When the scales are finished, the man makes an easy transition into something classical, in accordance with his usual schedule. Today the piece is sad and heartfelt; it brings to John's mind words like 'adagio' and 'sonata,' and the vague impression of a minor key. Things he doesn't really know about, but that drift to the surface of his memory from clarinet lessons at school so very long ago. He rests for a time with his eyes closed in the warm current of the music.

The piece is over in what seems both like an eon and like only a few minutes. There is a scattered applause in the station; only a few people seem to have found the time to stop and listen. John claps too, and keeps on for a moment after the rest stop. The violinist's eyes fall on him, blue-green-grey like clear water. John holds his gaze but finds he is not able to smile; he wonders if he has forgotten how.

A woman pulling a rolling suitcase behind her clatters between them and the moment breaks. There is a clinking of coins as a few pence and pounds are tossed into the violin case.

The man inevitably follows his first piece with something popular, something that will garner far more of the crowd's attention. Sometimes it is variations on Zeppelin, other times it will be Queen or Radiohead. He has even managed Clash covers, in the past. John thought 'Lost in the Supermarket' was actually quite brilliant on the violin. The modern music is the money-maker; people don't tip fivers and tenners for Mozart, generally.

Today, he plays 'Eleanor Rigby,' and the larger notes seem to pour into the violin case. Again, when the song ends, John applauds just a few moments longer than the crowd and the violinist's eyes catch his. Neither of them smile, but John feels reassurance drape over his entire being like a warm blanket.

When the music begins once more, it is lilting and lovely, mournful undertones wavering beneath something rich and pastoral. It tugs at John's eyelids like a lullaby. He finds he does not fear closing his eyes for just a moment. There is safety here, under the violinist’s watch.

Sleep finds him there, at last, as he sits slumped against the tile. He is undisturbed by nightmares.

─

The voice that tugs him gently awake is unfamiliar and bass.

“John Watson. Such a dull name.”

John blinks his eyes open and sees the blurry form of the busker looming over him. His reactions feel laggard and he is still exhausted. The sandy crust that has formed at the inside corners of his eyes pulls at his skin uncomfortably.

“Sorry?” he manages, poking at his eyes with his fingers.

“Bank card. Probably for show; they'll have canceled your account by now for not meeting the minimum balance. Driver's license. Old address listed, almost certainly no longer in use. Membership card, YMCA Central London. Do veterans get a discount on that? Ah, and here--”

“Hang on, is that my--?” John sees now that the man is thumbing through the cards in what is unmistakably his wallet, and his voice trails off. His jaw feels suddenly tight. He grabs for his cane and shoves himself up to his feet, the movement putting him squarely into the intruder's personal space, and he reaches for his wallet.

The man lets him take it back without resistance. He is at least half a foot taller than John, and he blinks down at him curiously.

“Thank you,” John snaps, glancing through his cards to make sure they're all still there before flipping the wallet shut. “Do you normally dig through blokes' bags and read their cards aloud to them?”

The man crinkles his brow and continues staring. It is vaguely unnerving.

John meets his gaze. It is incidental, merely a glance upward, but in these close quarters the blue of the man's eyes is startling. It is a familiar blue. He suddenly feels as though someone has wrapped their fist around his heart and squeezed.

John turns his eyes to the tiled floor and forces himself to draw a tight breath. He is not ready for this right now. There is a tug in his chest that tells him he ought to retreat and spare himself the possibility of fucking up this conversation, driving a wedge between himself and the busker. He doesn’t want to ruin this. He wants to keep hearing the music every day.

“Right,” he says, gesturing with the wallet before tucking it away in the back pocket of his trousers. “Thanks for this back, anyway. Lovely playing today, as usual, but I, uh, should probably be on my way.”

John stoops awkwardly, leaning on his cane, to pick up his bag. He slings it over his good shoulder, and with a final look up at the other man and a forced half-smile, starts limping away towards the staircases.

The bass voice calls after him, echoing off the walls of the station and mingling with the din of the public that already fills the cavernous space.

“Afghanistan, or Iraq?”

The questions hangs in the air. John freezes with the unexpectedness of it, and turns around. The busker is standing several yards away, draped in his long black coat, his hands hidden away in the pockets. He looks nonchalant, but his eyes still hold the same intensity that they always seem to carry.

John frowns. He limps a few paces back towards the man and answers before he realizes quite what he's doing.

“Afghanistan. But how--”

“Simple enough deduction.” the man cuts him off. “You might as well be wearing fatigues.” His gaze flits and darts over John, as though he were skimming a page of a textbook. “How long have you been sleeping rough?”

John feels his jaw tighten again. The instinct is to stutter, lie. He wants to deny and deflect, wants to rage and lose his temper, wants to punch the man in the mouth for the careless way he says it. John keeps filed away in his head a figurative non-disclosure agreement regarding his circumstances. He does not talk about it; he doesn’t so much as think about it, most days, and now he has had his contract stolen from him and destroyed, burned, shredded into so many tiny pieces in a crowded Underground station. 

He can't find his words. He is stuck huffing in breath and struggling for calm, a tremor shaking his left hand. 

The man furrows his brow, tilts his head just slightly to the side. “You're ashamed,” he states, after a moment, as if John's reaction has puzzled him. “Your clothing is worn, but spotlessly clean; it smells of the cheap detergent they sell at the laundrette. You've kept the military haircut, but it's lopsided, probably because you've been keeping it trimmed yourself with scissors. You're trying to keep your face clean-shaven; you don't want to look unkempt. The blade on your safety razor is starting to go, though. You nicked yourself there, by your left ear, and you've missed quite a few patches of stubble. You've been using the showers at the YMCA, of course; why else would you be paying for a membership when you can barely afford regular meals?” He drags out the ‘s’ on the last syllable and stands there looking pleased with himself, like a cat that has carried home a dead songbird for its owner.

The words are delivered rapid-fire and John is left reeling. He doesn't know how he ought to feel, what reaction he is supposed to have to this telling of his secrets. Around them, commuters bustle by in droves, but there is a roaring in John's ears and it is as if he and the violinist are alone together, isolated. Their conversation feels intimate. John cannot tell if the emotion roiling inside him is even anger.

He wants to reply. He wants to ask how the man can possibly know any of that. He wants to tell him to piss off. He wants to tell him that he is _brilliant_ , extraordinary, remarkable. He wants to tell him how his music has kept John tethered to his sanity like a lifeline.

It’s impossible, John thinks. This man is impossible, this entire conversation is impossible. How do you tell someone that their mere presence lights up the dark places inside your head that you thought were dead and rotting? There aren’t words for that sort of thing, and if there are, John doesn’t know them.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and forces himself to speak.

“How did you know I was a soldier?” John measures his words. Slow now, easy, he tells himself. This is his first honest-to-God conversation with another person in months and months.

“I didn’t know. I observed,” the man says. There is a beat of silence and John is sure he is about to be audience to another rapid series of deductions picking apart his clothing and haircut and shoe size and who knows what else.

Instead the man’s lips curl into a tiny smile and his eyes dance. He drops his voice down and tilts his head in towards John as if to tell him something in confidence. “You’ve still got your expired RAMC identification card in your wallet.”

There is a pause, a beat of silence, and then John feels a smile etch itself into his face and a bark of unexpected laughter escapes him. It jars his system, wakes up the under-used creases near his mouth, pulls at muscles in his belly that have been long neglected.

The man smiles along with him. He pulls out his mobile and wakes up the screen, the luminescence of it reflecting faintly across his face. He speaks again without looking up. “I would check your wallet again, though. One never can be too careful with street performer types.” 

The phone disappears back into his coat pocket and his eyes meet John’s again. The man’s eye contact is all or nothing; he is either glancing around at everyone and everything that is not John, or looking directly into his soul. He winks, of all things, and ducks down to pick up the violin case.

“Unfortunately, I was just reminded of a rather unavoidable prior engagement.” When he straightens again, he catches John’s eyes with his own once more. John thinks he has never seen someone with a more honest and open face than the violinist. His expressions hold no secrets, tell no lies.

“I trust I’ll be seeing you again tomorrow morning, John? Do take care.”

Without waiting for a response he turns, long coat twirling about his knees, and steps into the bustle of the station. John watches the back of his dark head of curls until he disappears from view.

John is cut adrift, leaning on his cane in the middle of the floor. The smile that had lingered throughout his conversation with the busker slips gradually from his face. He chews at the inside of his cheek, glances to his left and right and sees that the world has somehow kept turning. People are cutting around him in wide swathes as they pass. Nobody else seems to have noticed the coming and going of the remarkable man with the violin.

He pulls out his wallet again as he remembers the man’s quip about street musicians. The cards are all still accounted for; he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips when he sees his expired military ID. He peeks inside the largest fold of the wallet on a whim and nearly chokes at the crisp and purple twenty pound note that has been tucked inside. There is a manila-colored business card next to it. John pulls it out and stares at the elegant typed lettering on the front. 

**W. SHERLOCK HOLMES **  
**** **Concert Violinist**  
221B Baker Street  
London  
NW1 6XE  
07700 900484

John raises an eyebrow. He wonders if concert violinists often busk in tube stations or if Sherlock (Mr. Holmes? W?) is an anomaly in that regard as well. He believes it is probably the latter. Sherlock is an absurd name, posh beyond belief; it sounds like something out of a Jane Austen novel. John thinks it suits him to a T. He goes to slip the business card back into his wallet, but stops when his eye catches on neat, bold handwriting in black ink on the reverse side.

**FOR A HOT MEAL.  
** **DON’T BE STUBBORN ABOUT IT.**  
**-SH**

The words feel sour in his mind as he reads and rereads them. He can almost feel the twenty-pound note through the leather, weighing heavily in his hand. It’s charity, he’s sure of it, and he doesn’t know why he feels so utterly blind-sided by it.

He doesn’t want this, not from Sherlock Holmes. He wants his music, definitely; his company, maybe. He wants his presence, calming and electrifying all at once. What he doesn’t want is to be some bloke sleeping on a tube station floor that needs pitying.

John realizes his hands are shaking and he forces himself to draw in a few deep breaths. He’s not sure what he’s feeling, but there is an unpleasant pull in his gut and a lump caught just below his Adam’s apple. Air, he thinks. He should get some air.

The cane clicks against the floor as he hobbles to the stairs and hauls himself up them and out of the station. The October chill outside rushes down into open collar of his jacket and up through his sleeves. The exposed knuckles on his right hand are numbed by the wind.

He stomps up Baker Street, down Marylebone Road, back again. He doesn’t let himself think about anything.

There is an hour of this before he wears himself out and drops onto a park bench, chest heaving. His stomach is painful and empty. In the end, he shoves down his pride, and as soon as he’s able to shift himself again he heads for the nearest Chinese restaurant he knows of. If he has to stoop so low as to accept the money, he thinks, he may as well treat himself.

He orders what is probably far too much food from the woman behind the counter. Something lightens inside him when he is able to pay her with the crisp twenty pounds from his wallet instead of a scrapped-together pile of coins; it is a dignity he isn’t often afforded of late.

As he drops into a flimsy plastic chair near the fogged-over shop front to eat, he thinks he might almost be happy right now. The food sinks warmly into his belly. His brain hums with thoughts of the busker (Sherlock, he reminds himself; there’s a name, now), conflicting feelings of indignation and what is undeniably some kind of attraction.

He gorges himself on steaming hot rice, pillowy dumplings, and pork lo-mein, and wonders if he is doomed to be constantly dazzled by tall, blue-eyed men.


	2. Chapter 2

By the next morning, John is angry again.

He is in the Baker Street tube station and he is pacing, thumping his cane on the floor far harder than necessary with each step. The clock ticks on towards six-thirty. He glares up at it periodically.

His mind is shuffling together sentences, admonitions, trying to work out how best to express his displeasure at being treated like a donation bin at Christmas. It’s probably in vain; when his temper boils over, any planned words he has tend to go straight out of his head. And John’s had plenty of experience losing his temper. He’s got anger issues just like every other Watson he’s ever known. Before she died, his Gran used to say that the family blood was spiked with vinegar. John could say now with some certainty it was more likely whiskey.

He looks for the clock again. Six-thirty. Bingo. Where is he?

There. The sweep of Sherlock’s ridiculous long coat catches his eye; punctual today. Good, John thinks; he appreciates people being on-time, and his temper doesn’t need any more feeding right now. He starts across the floor towards him. He is squeezing the t-handle of his cane with white knuckles.

Sherlock is kneeling by his violin case, examining his bow. At the sound of John lurching towards him, he looks up, bright-eyed and with a smile playing at his lips.

“John.”

To John’s credit, he doesn’t shout, nor does he whack his cane against the floor or kick the violin case or any of the other things he really does want to do. Instead he looks the other man dead in the eyes and says, voice as steady as he can hold it, “Why did you try to give me money?”

Sherlock straightens and cocks his head at him.

“I didn’t try. I gave you money. And you spent it like I asked; you’ve got some color back in your face today.” He looks so pleased, cat-that-got-the-canary all over again, and John’s left hand shakes. He wants to hit him.

“Why?” John asks again. He clenches his jaw, squares his shoulders, stands up as straight as he can.

Sherlock shrugs. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” John’s lips pull into a humourless smile and he shakes his head disbelievingly. “Keep your sodding money to yourself. I don’t want it.”

Sherlock is looking anywhere but at John and has his hands tucked in his trouser pockets, his left fidgeting with what sounds like coins. “It wasn’t my money. Some careless woman left it in my violin case. I was just passing it along.”

It’s not funny. John’s temper snaps. He shouts.

“This is not a fucking joke!” He steps forward into Sherlock’s space, raises a pointed finger at his chest. “Leave off. Now. I’m not a bloody charity case. I don’t want--”

“Have lunch with me this afternoon.”

John freezes. Sherlock is chewing at his bottom lip, brow furrowed. His words tumble over and over in John’s mind. What the hell does that mean? What the hell does that even mean?

Something finally clicks, and he stares at the other man. He doesn’t intend for his voice to come out as faintly as it does. “What are you playing at?”

“Sorry?”

John lets out a shaky breath, tips his chin up, smiles his least-friendly smile. “You’re trying to buy me over, yeah? Butter me up a bit?” In his mind he is daring the man to say something. Go on, he thinks. He wants a reason to let his anger loose. 

Confusion is evident on Sherlock’s face. “Buy you over for what?”

“You tell me!” John is shouting again. His left hand shakes, violently. “You tell me. Did you want me to come back to yours with you? Or was I just meant to suck you off in an alley?!”

The color drops out of Sherlock’s face. John is breathing hard and he spares a glance to his left, sees a woman look at him with an appalled expression before bundling her coat around her and hurrying along. 

Sherlock has dropped a hand over his eyes and tipped his head downward.

“Oh god,” he says, his voice low, hoarse with distress. He sweeps the hand back through his curly mess of hair. His eyes are resolutely avoiding John’s now, darting around the ceiling of the station. “That’s how I’ve come across to you.” 

“A bit, yeah!” John says, but the fight has gone out of him at the sight of the other man’s obvious upset. John lets his shoulders relax, takes deep breaths, tries to let go of the anger. It’s clear there have been some wires crossed between them. “Explain, then. Go on.”

Sherlock still won’t look at him, but starts speaking in the same rapid monotone he used the previous day when he was rattling off observations about John.

“I wanted to ask you to have a meal with me yesterday, but as I stated then, I had a prior engagement that was unavoidable. Since I wasn’t able to invite you to eat with me, I determined to at least leave you the funds I was going to spend anyway. You looked quite ill. No, don’t argue--” he says, holding a hand up flat to silence John’s interjection. “You did. You looked positively gaunt. You have since you started coming to see me play three months ago and it’s only gotten worse with time.”

All John hears is the man talking around the question, and he has to struggle not to cut him off.

“However, while I would certainly prefer to see you healthy, John, my motives were quite selfish, though not for the distasteful reasons you presumed a few moments ago. Quite honestly, I had only hoped that since you seem to be able to tolerate my violin playing, you might also be so able to tolerate having a proper conversation with me.” He gives a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So few people can.”

And that’s not fair, John thinks, not at all fair for such a remarkable man to say something that sounds so terribly lonely. He doesn’t know what to say or do, now that the anger has fallen away and left him feeling vulnerable and unsure of himself all over again. It’s as if they have circled right back around to the beginning. John wants to hand Sherlock his wallet, watch him rifle through it, start again. Start over. He remembers the warmth and the fluttering nerves in his belly yesterday, when Sherlock had made him laugh and how it had felt like Dorothy pouring oil over the Tin Man, soothing the rusted places inside him. And so he says “Alright, then,” and tries very hard to smile and succeeds, a bit.

Sherlock looks him in the eye again, finally, the sparkle returned to them that had dissipated during John’s fit of temper. John is relieved to see it, relieved to see that this something, this unsure and newly born connection between them remains intact.

“I probably ought to play the violin, now,” says Sherlock, not breaking eye contact.

A smile breaks over John’s face and he nods and shrugs his shoulders, conceding the point. “Probably,” he says. He hikes his bag up higher on his shoulder. Before he turns to go sit further away to listen, he pauses and says “Play ‘Lost in the Supermarket’ again today, yeah?”

Sherlock smiles, nods his head once. John turns away and starts off towards his usual column.

“John, how do you feel about Italian?” Sherlock calls after him.

“Italian’s fine,” he says over his shoulder. “Anything’s fine.”

  


\--

  


Around two o’clock that afternoon, John meets Sherlock back at Baker Street Station and they take the tube all the way past Soho to Northumberland Street in Covent Garden. John pays his fare with some of what he has left after the Chinese yesterday, and is grateful when Sherlock makes no comment about it. 

Their conversation is sparse but comfortable on the way. Sherlock monologues a bit about a performance he is rehearsing for, something about a composer named Paganini and his first violin concerto (“It requires the violin to be tuned a semitone higher, you see, John”), and John has honestly no clue what he’s on about but he is interested anyway. It’s interesting. Nothing in John’s life has been interesting in quite a long time.

Sherlock leads him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall sort of Italian café called Angelo’s. Inside, it’s dim and warm, and John’s mouth waters at the heady smell of marinara sauce and browning meat that hangs in the air. A waiter waves them over to a table by the large bay window at the front of the restaurant. Sherlock gestures at the window as he takes his coat off and sits down. “I like to watch people,” he says, as if in explanation.

John registers that that ought to sound strange, but he is starting to understand that nearly everything Sherlock says sounds a bit strange. His word choice lacks that certain polish of social courtesy. So far as John can tell, the other man is bluntly honest in all things, whether it’s situationally appropriate or not. It’s refreshing. John can feel his guard starting to slip when he’s around him.

“Sherlock!” someone calls in a gruff voice.

John looks up to see a heavy-set man bustling over to their table, a pair of menus in his hands. John thinks he looks a bit like an ex-convict and a bit like Father Christmas. 

Sherlock stands up to meet him. The man sets the menus down at both of their places and grips Sherlock’s outstretched hand with both of his own, shaking it vigorously. “Sherlock, your playing last weekend was fantastic. Outstanding! Would’ve made Mozart himself weep. And you’ve brought a date!” the man says, to John’s sudden alarm. “Anything you’d like to eat, on the house, for both of you.”

“John, this is Angelo,” Sherlock says as he sits back down.

“I’m not his date,” is all John can think to say.

Angelo seems not to hear him. “I’ll get a candle for the table, s’more romantic,” he says, winking hugely at them and clapping a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder before walking away. John is left feeling a bit shell-shocked.

“Angelo is rather a big fan of mine,” Sherlock says when they are alone again.

“Why does he think I’m your date?” John tries to keep his voice steady but it comes out strained.

Sherlock is reading over the menu calmly. “I’ve no idea.”

“Well, do you bring a lot of men here?”

“No.” He drags out the ‘n’ and doesn’t look up at John.

There’s a pause. John fiddles with his silverware. “Women, then?” he asks, suddenly curious.

Sherlock glances up at him finally, one eyebrow raised and an amused expression on his face. “Do I seem like I bring a lot of women places, John?” He goes back to reading the menu. “You should have the lasagna. It’s excellent.”

“This isn’t a date though.” It’s not a question but it comes out sounding like one.

Sherlock snaps the menu down on the table and huffs, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, John, I thought we’d already been over this.”

“I’m just clarifying!” John says. “I’m not really in a great position to be going out on dates right now.”

Sherlock’s expression softens. He looks John up and down from across the table. “Take your jacket off,” he says. “You’ll be too warm.”

John glances down at himself. He hadn’t even realized his coat was still on. He doesn’t often remove it now that the weather has turned cold. He undoes the buttons and takes it off. They sit in silence a few moments.

“Ah, listen,” John starts finally. Sherlock looks at him with a curious expression. “I just wanted to… apologize. For losing my temper, earlier.”

“Apologize, you don’t need to apologize,” Sherlock murmurs, browsing over the menu again and avoiding John’s eyes. “I made you unintentionally very uncomfortable. Your reaction was perfectly understandable.”

“No, Sherlock,” John shakes his head. “I didn’t need to yell so the whole tube station could hear me. I really didn’t.” He lets out a shaky breath. These sorts of discussions are not easy for him. “Just. Look, I can take care of myself, yeah? But there are people-- kids, who are desperate, who’ll trust anyone who offers them any sort of help.”

“John, I _am_ sorry.”

“My point, Sherlock, is that you didn’t do it on purpose. And I’m sorry I yelled. That’s all.” 

He wants to say: I trust you. He wants to say: I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever known, and I don’t even know you.

Instead, Sherlock nods slowly and they both sit in silence.

A change of topic seems in order, so John scans the few occupied tables around them before settling on a woman in a rather gaudy blue dress with far too much black lace trim. “OK,” he says to Sherlock. “Tell me about her, go on.” He nods discretely towards her table.

“Sorry?”

“Come on, you told me all about myself just from looking at me yesterday. What’s her story?”

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised, but then glances over at the woman in question. “Well.” He clears his throat. “Since you ask…”

At some point, Angelo comes back and slides a lit candle between them, which John tries resolutely to ignore. He does order the lasagna, on Sherlock’s recommendation, and it is excellent. Sherlock has pasta puttanesca and pokes it around with his fork a bit and barely eats. They share a bottle of cabernet. John spends the whole meal giggling like a kid at Sherlock’s deductions about the other patrons. He suspects possibly the other man is making some of it up to amuse him, and the thought of that just makes him smile more. He feels happy and it is remarkable.

It’s past six when they get off the tube again at Baker Street. Before they go their separate ways, Sherlock stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He pulls it back quickly. “You should come by the flat,” he says, staring at the wall behind John’s head. “For tea. Thursday, maybe.” John can see a flush of red in his cheeks from the wine.

“I will.” John says. He doesn’t hesitate. How could he ever not want to spend more time in Sherlock Holmes’ company? He can’t fathom it, not after the afternoon they just had.

Sherlock looks at him, seeming caught off guard by his quick response.

“Three o’clock alright?” John tries.

“Perfectly alright.” Sherlock tucks his hands into his coat pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, John.” He hesitates before adding, “Do be careful.”

“I’ll see you,” John says. “And it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

He will be fine. The temperature is gentle tonight. The wine and the company have made him feel quite warm. It’ll be fine.

Sherlock worries at his lip a moment, looking as though he is turning something over in his head. “John,” he says finally, carefully. “If you ever need anything. Anything at all. The address on my card, just… If you need anything.”

John looks away and scratches at the side of his jaw, gone rough with the day’s growth of stubble. He forces a smile. “I’m ok, Sherlock. It’s fine.”

Sherlock looks sad. He looks as though he doesn’t believe him. It’s horrible. John hates it. It makes his gut churn and prods at the dormant wasp’s nest that is his temper. The urge comes over him to grab Sherlock by the shoulders and shake him and shake him until the expression is knocked loose from his face.

Instead, John clenches his fingers tight around the handle of his cane, gives Sherlock a curt nod, turns around, walks away.

When the desire to hit something finally leaves him some time later that evening, all he’s left with is a bleak empty feeling just below his ribcage and a loneliness he just isn’t able to shake.

  


\--

  


The door is flung open barely a moment after John knocks. Sherlock’s lanky frame takes up the whole entranceway and he towers over John, who is standing one concrete stair down from the door.

“John!” he says, sounding out of breath. “Come in, come right in.” He is draped in an expensive-looking blue dressing gown over a neatly-pressed shirt and pair of trousers. John notices with some amusement that his feet are bare.

Sherlock steps out of the way and holds the door for him as John hobbles up the few steps into the hallway. “I’m up the stairs, I’m afraid,” he says.

“It’s no bother.” John waves his hand dismissively and starts hauling himself up the staircase, leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock pads up after him.

The flat is nothing at all like he might have guessed. John thinks if he were asked to describe it, he’d say it looked a bit like if Da Vinci, Shelley, Mendeleev, and Mozart had all taken up residence together in a far-too-small living space. The entire room has a decidedly bohemian quality about it. The furniture is mismatched and the wallpaper eccentric, covered in starkly contrasting black and white fleur-de-lis. Laboratory equipment, of all things, is set up all over the kitchen table; John wonders what Sherlock could possibly need a microscope and a Bunsen burner and so very many Erlenmeyer flasks for. There is sheet music strewn across every free surface. Several bookcases are buckling under the weight of everything from Darwin to Dostoyevsky. A gleaming upright piano is pushed against one wall, and Sherlock’s violin has been set carefully on the bench. John wonders if he has just been playing it.

As he stands with his cane in the doorway, catching his breath from the climb, a familiar smell catches his notice.

“Have you had a fire?” he asks Sherlock as the other man bustles around the room, haphazardly stacking up loose pieces of sheet music. “It smells like burnt plastic in here.” It only occurs to him after he speaks that this is perhaps not the most polite way to talk about a flat he was just welcomed into.

Sherlock answers without stopping what he is doing. “Ah, yes, a bit. There was a minor incident with the Bunsen burner and what I had _thought_ was a metal tea-strainer. Essentially, it melted and then shortly afterward caught fire.”

He sets the stack of music on the mantle and stabs it through with an antique-looking knife, as if to punctuate his words. John looks on with raised eyebrows from the doorway.

“Were you straining tea over the Bunsen burner?”

“Tea!” Sherlock claps his hands together once and starts for the kitchen. John can hear the sounds of a tap being switched on and a kettle being filled. He wanders further into the sitting room, trying to take in the wonderful chaos of it all.

Sherlock talks at him from the kitchen. “I’m very glad you’re here, John. I’ve been wanting to show you Symphony Number Nine, Opus Ninety-Five from Dvořák because I’m certain you’ll love it, but it’s not at all for solo violin and so I couldn’t very well play it for you in the morning. It’s fantastic, John. The _New World Symphony_. It’s very famous.”

John smiles fondly as he listens to him go on and on. There is a haggard and threadbare armchair, upholstered in a rusty red paisley, sitting beside the fireplace. He is just contemplating sitting down in it when Sherlock bursts back into the room bearing a tea tray.

“John? Why are you still up?” he says without setting the tray down. “Sit down, rest your leg.”

John rolls his eyes. “Sod my leg,” he mutters, but he goes over to the chair, swats a few times at the (absurd, out-of-place) Union Jack cushion that rests on it, and drops himself down with some relief. “Milk, no sugar,” he says, off-handedly.

Sherlock puts the tray on an end table, fusses over it a moment, and picks up a steaming mug of tea. He goes to hand it off to John but pauses. “Your jacket is still on. Take your jacket off.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake…” John says, but it’s half-hearted. He takes his jacket off. Sherlock hands him his tea. John forgets thank-you.

“Mrs. Hudson did us a plate of sandwiches as well, before she left for her sister’s this morning,” Sherlock says. He plucks one off the tray for himself, then takes the plate and sets it on a table at John’s elbow.

“Who’s Mrs. Hudson?”

“My landlady. She lives in the flat downstairs.”

John picks up a sandwich, examines it briefly; it appears to be chicken on a wheaty sort of bread, cut into neat triangle halves. He downs one in a few bites. The sudden intake of food gives him a head rush and he closes his eyes against the brief dizziness. When he opens them again, he catches Sherlock watching him with steady eyes from the armchair opposite his. John licks his lips and reaches for his tea, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

He swallows the still-too-hot tea and clears his throat. “So, um, Dvoor-zhak?” he says hesitantly, trying to pronounce the name the same way Sherlock had.

Sherlock’s face lights up, as though he had forgotten all about the music until just now. “Indeed, John!” he says, setting his tea down haphazardly and splashing a bit over his hand. He bounds out of his chair and over to the stereo in the corner.

John watches from his chair, starting on another sandwich and smiling at the other man’s gangly limbs and too-big hands and pale, bare feet. He feels so fond his heart seems to expand in his chest. 

The symphony, when it starts, is lovely too.

  


\--

  


Afternoon tea becomes a regularity, another bright bit of routine in John’s otherwise unstructured day-to-day existence. Sherlock invites him round at least twice a week, sits him down in the armchair, hands him cups of tea and sandwiches and cartons of takeaway and packets of biscuits.

John gains a pound back, according to the scale at the YMCA. He is loathe to admit it, but lately he feels just a little bit less like he might keel over at any moment. He can’t bring himself to be truly resentful of Sherlock for it. Every meal they share is accompanied by easy conversation, and usually also an impromptu music lesson of some sort. John is learning more about classical music than he thought there was to know.

It’s good. Things feel alright, for a change.

Eventually, October rolls quietly on and is replaced by a dreary, cold November.

On the second Friday evening of the new month, things stop being quite so alright.

There’s blood, and it’s freezing cold, and it’s the sort of situation where he can really only think about those two things because there is so much blood and it is so goddamned cold. His right hand is stiff and windburned where it clutches his cane. His left presses a crumpled, dripping tissue to his nose, trying futilely to stem the bleeding from it. The front of his jacket is completely soaked, probably ruined. The wind is getting in at his leg through the gaping tear in his trousers.

He is outside the Baker Street flat, and he is so fucking embarrassed he could scream. He did shout, earlier, or at least had tried until he had gagged on the blood running down the back of his throat and had needed to lean over, coughing up red on the ground. He had kicked over the nearest garbage can, and cursed and coughed and yelled himself hoarse, only stopping when the wail of a police siren in the distance startled him into silence.

There had been no options to consider. There is only this, the quiet drip of blood on the pavement as he stands in front of Sherlock Holmes’ door in the dark.

It’s cold. 

He bites back the shame he feels and takes the hand away from his nose to knock, as loudly as he can, pain blossoming over his already-bruised knuckles.

He hates the relief that washes over him when he sees the hall light flip on through the crack under the door.


End file.
